


funny how a melody sounds like a memory

by JennaGill



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Eric Church - Freeform, F/M, Springsteen, song!everlark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 06:03:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17319359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaGill/pseuds/JennaGill
Summary: Song!Everlark about hot July nights.





	funny how a melody sounds like a memory

**Author's Note:**

> Fic contains adapted lyrics from Eric Church’s 'Springsteen' and characters from Suzanne Collins, neither of which I own. Thanks to everyone that commented for not talking me out of this and to Papofglencoe for giving it a thumbs up! All mistakes are mine.

“What’ll it be?”

“Anything cold, man”

He sets the ice cold beer next to my ballcap on the bar. July is always ungodly hot here. More bearable in the shade or at night, the memory of working in my parent’s bakery kindling ire for this town. Even with taking turns with my brothers for oven duty, the heat from that kitchen was stifling. Working the front counter was better anyway, for the off chance of catching her walk by with her sister but I left all that behind ten years ago.

“How much do I owe you?”

He waves the offer off. “It‘s on the house. Not every day we get a hometown hero to grace us with his presence.”

A grunt escapes me before my manners slip back into place. “Well thanks Haymitch. How you doin’?”

He shrugs, “Same, I guess. Ten years doesn’t change much here.”

I take a sip of nostalgia and nod in agreement.

The jukebox fires up behind me, playing a familiar tune. To this day when I hear that song, I see her standing there on that lawn. Her discount shades perched atop her head, worn flip-flops and cut off jeans, ready to go wherever. I’d pick her up and we’d take a drive somewhere between that setting sun and the songs filtering through the summer heat. We’d hear  _I’m On Fire_  and  _Born To Run_. She looked at me and I was a goner, we were just getting started.

“Have you seen your folks yet?” he asks, pausing the memory.

“Yep, just came from there. The afternoon rush arrived though, so I ducked out. I wanted to come here, before the night crowd got rowdy.”

“Night crowd, eh? You’re lookin’ at it.  Most folks go to that place by the river. Pay twice as much for the same beer–” pointing at my Yuengling. “For the ambience.”

“Hpmf,” I mutter. Abernathy’s was always the place to go for a good time.

“Besides, as I recall, you were one of the rowdy ones. You and your girl, the one with spunk. Whatever happened to your girl? I haven’t seen her back here since you left.”

He’s right.

Sitting here releases the dam and her memories flood into my forethought. I was singing to her, she was singing to me. I was so alive, never been more free. We fired up Sae’s jukebox and we sang along to every song. We stayed there all night long, playing track after track until they forced us out at closing. We’d take the long way to her house, parked out by the river and spent our last few hours together. And I can still hear the sound of her saying, “don’t go” when I took her home. I left, I left for training and I didn’t look back. I knew she wouldn’t be here, since I was her only tether outside of her family anyway.

The vision of her crying throbs in my memory. I clear my throat. “Her mom got a job closer to where she went to college, so the whole family moved across the country. Last I heard, she was in Europe.”

“Oh that’s right, I think I heard Sae talking about that back then. What about you, where’ve you been?”

“Here and there, staying busy.”

“Busy is good. Keeps you focused. Idle hands n’all…” Haymitch says and turns to serve other patrons.

I concentrate on the song lyrics, something about young love. When I think about my young love, I think about her. I think about 17. I think about my old red Jeep. I think about the stars in the sky. It’s funny how a melody sounds like a memory and takes me back to our July Saturday night soundtrack. Springsteen. Skin on skin. Her heartbeat thrumming in my ear. The feel of her wrapped around me, taking her to the edge over and over. And when she shattered against me, I knew I was in heaven.

“Do you think she’ll come for the show?” Haymitch asks and snaps me back to the present.

I gulp, his question reading directly into my mind. “What?” I manage.

“Do you think she’ll turn up in town this weekend for this revival concert?”

I scratch at the stubble on my chin, considering the possibility and shrug my shoulders. “I doubt it.”

Haymitch shuffles back to the other group in the bar which is otherwise empty on Friday afternoon.

If bumped into her by happenstance, I bet she probably wouldn’t even know who I am. I wonder though, if I got close enough and whispered her name in her ear, I bet there’d still be a spark.

“Are you expecting a large crowd then, this weekend for the concert?” Optimism colors my voice.

“I reckon I’ll see some familiar faces around the bar, for locals and folks that grew up here but I expect most of the tourists will stick to the fairgrounds or up by the interstate.”

A beer delivery guy cuts off my next question, distracting Haymitch for a bit. If I did see her, what would I even say? What could I possibly say to show her that I was happiest holding her in my arms. I run through the conversation scenarios in my head.

Do you remember back when I was gasoline to your fire? We were young and rebels then, when this old tattoo had brand new ink. And we didn’t care what my momma would think ‘bout your name on my arm. The arrow leaf is faded now, but I remember getting it like it was yesterday. When I look at it, I get lost in the memories. Time is a funny thing like that. I wish you were here, I wish we could pick back up where we left off. Baby is it spring or is it summer in this space where we meet again? Is it the guitar sound or the beat of the drummer that you hear sometimes late at night when you dare think about me? Even though you’re a million miles away when you hear  _Born In The USA_ , do you relive our glory days from so long ago? I wonder if you sometimes think about the same things I do.

My mind was so far away, stuck in so long ago that it barely registered another quarter being dropped into the jukebox. The drums tap on my soul and the memory tugs me to the surface. What are the odds? They certainty aren’t in my favor. Only one person would play two Boss songs in a row with me sitting here.

“Hey stranger,” tickles my ears. She was always so damn quiet.

“Hey yourself,” I grin.


End file.
